Ultima Volta
by dervishandbanges
Summary: Another variation on the oh-so-banal pairing of Sparrabeth. Just a picture with some obvious background.


_**A/N: **__So this is the thing I've been working on since yesterday or so. Set in some kind of beginning of OST, also ignoring any indications of Elizabeth waiting for her romantic Williamero (I make her travel to England and suffer from depression). I'm sorry that it's just a picture again, but I'm no good in getting into serious action and I prefer focusing on the background rather than on what's actually happening. Also I know that my level of the language is still super low, but I'm working on it, both reading and writing, so if you notice any mistakes – especially grammar, all this Past Perfect stuff makes me dizzy – please let me know so I can improve :D plus I can't help super long sentences, so I'm sorry for that too. And remember! Reviews prevent indigestion. Sooo… TADAM! xd_

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><p><strong>Ultima Volta <strong>by dervishandbanges

She came back to London, the only place to go, and after London there was nothing. She would take anything, literally anything, if it gave her a hope to go on, to move forward, or move anywhere. But nothing came. She got used to this time – their time – his time – was up.

She met him once, accidentally, when she was hurrying down a busy Piccadilly and she noticed his hat in the crowd. He was striking as always, one-of-a-kind, unforgettable – he and his walk of a drunken voodoo priest, he and the beads in his dreadlocks, he and his eyelids covered with kohl. He seemed even more unusual between the Londoners, always so neat and tidy it was disturbing already, their cheeks red and their wigs white. He totally didn't fit this pit, always so uncomfortable and stiff.

She turned around, watching him go, watching him _move_. He didn't notice her, not even when he walked past her, he noticed nothing, ever, apart from the things he was interested in and she was never appealing enough to become one of those things – well, for that, she would need tits, and she had none. She called his name, but he didn't even look back, he didn't turn around, nothing. Nobody turned around, nobody looked at her, nobody heard her, she _was_ nobody. She would stand in the middle of the place for the next fifteen minutes, pushed and shoved by the mob, her eyes wide from both astonishment and disappointment. She thought meeting him – actually anyone from the past, anyone, would be some kind of unique. She thought – was hoping – it would be a special moment, she thought that everything around would – was going to – freeze, to make it even more special, and maybe she would even get a chance to come back and whatever made her go, or run away, would disappear. She had a thousand reasons of coming back. She knew they would be enough, she knew that one day she would return. She was so sure seeing _him_, of all people, in London, would mean something, like a sign that this world she left behind needs her and wants her back.

Oh, but no. There was nothing. He didn't even bother to see who called out his name. Later on she decided the word she cried out may have sounded a little too desperate, like a shriek of a wife being left by her husband. She wondered that maybe he had recognized her voice, maybe he had noticed, but the voice itself had sounded out of place. But he himself was always out of place and he himself never suited anything, he wanted the world to fit him, as he never fitted the world. He never really cared about suiting somebody's requirement – so why did _she _have to match a situation for him? He never did anything for her, it was always her that did everything to please him. Literally, _everything._

He disappeared in the crowd, for her always a faceless pulp creating _such_ a contrast with the people of _that _world – back in the Caribbean she remembered nearly every person she met. All the Englishmen were identical, wearing identical clothes and identical hairstyles, with identically dumb expressions on their faces, like they wanted to seem clever and chic, but were just were just swollen with pride. Everybody seemed swollen with whatever, with these pinkish cheeks and small piggy eyes.

She decided to walk away like nothing happened, but she couldn't help turning around all the time to glance nervously in the direction he was walking, and she couldn't stop thinking that he may have been walking the same way she was walking right now…

And she was like:

- Jack!

But nothing happened.

Oh, he was a _captain_. Bigheaded like everyone here. He totally fitted this pit.

.

It couldn't have been her, it just couldn't, and yet he felt he knew the woman who walked past him. Well of course he did.

The soft fabric of her dress' sleeve brushed against the used material of his shirt and for a fraction of a second, if only he had taken a breath, he could've – would've – felt her scent, hopefully the same scent of her pale neck and collarbone and lower on that he had been breathing on for hours in the past. Breathing, of course, was not enough, but she didn't seem to mind. If she did mind, she wouldn't have been coming back all the time. Right?

Then he heard his own name, her voice, what was more important, but it wasn't the same voice he got used to hearing. There was a strange note in her cry, something strong, and she was never strong, she was always weak and submissive, doing anything he told her to. Again, she didn't seem to mind. If she did mind, she would've just gone away. Which she did.

But she never expected him to change. She knew he was neither romantic or subtle; if she wanted romantic and subtle, again, she would've chosen somebody else.

Maybe if he turned around when he heard her call his name, she would've ran in his arms and he would've shoved his tongue in her throat, like all the time. Maybe she expected that. Maybe she _wanted _him to turn around – and he didn't want her to have the satisfaction, no, not after she decided to disappear just after making him addicted to her. This was so unfair. All of this. He would think she was different of all the girls he had ever met. She was subtle, she was distinct, she was just different.

He would impress her and she would be impressed, that's how it worked. She was perfectly happy with making him happy, and sometimes he felt like some kind of parasite because of this. Generally, she was really good at making him feel guilty and no matter how self-confident he was – acted – she could always find a way on lowering his sense of worth to a point in which he would throw her skinny pale body against a wall just to make sure he was still the boss. She was actually giving him a reason to do this, lots of reasons, as if she wanted him to – which was humiliating enough, as he always did it. She could manipulate him by letting him manipulate her at the same time and _this _is why she was different. This is why she was better.

At least that is what he thought – has been thinking – had been thinking. She had proved herself as low and cheap and false as every other. _He _was the one that was supposed to be deceitful and dishonest, so why was he the one who expected too much or couldn't find a way to get over something – someone - as trivial as her? Well, at least he was not the one who decided the only way to solve a problem was to run away from it. So if she proved herself a coward, what was the point in caring? He could be called many things, but not a coward. If she expected him to act like he was any kind of sorry or perhaps like he has missed her, if she expected him to act like he never minded, if she expected him to turn around – her expectations must have overpowered her common sense, a trait she did not possess, not ever.

And she was like:

- Jack!

But nothing happened.

Normally he would've reacted or something, but he was different this time.

The last time.

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><p><em><strong>Tadam!<strong>_


End file.
